


the misery you crave

by starsreside (captainandor)



Series: for the dead travel fast [2]
Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood Drinking, Imprisonment, M/M, Punishment, Unhealthy Relationships, not the marital bliss you were looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-04-25 12:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainandor/pseuds/starsreside
Summary: Hand trembling, Johnathan drops the gun. It hits the table with a dull thud.“That wasn’t very nice,” Dracula says, “Was it?”
Relationships: Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Series: for the dead travel fast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605586
Comments: 16
Kudos: 259





	the misery you crave

**Author's Note:**

> so it turns out I'm still on my bullshit and I cannot leave this pairing alone. This wasn't meant to be quite so long, but the story decided to write itself, and now here we are. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy that this is now part of a series, of which hopefully there will be more in the future!
> 
> (Note: there's one sentence in here that could be interpreted as dubious consent - it's not. they're both into it)

Lately, Johnathan has found himself to have been given a longer leash – and Dracula allows him to roam more of the castle alone. Though it largely still resembles a labyrinth of corridors and strangely curved stairways, Johnathan finds that, slowly, he is beginning to find his way around with more ease. 

Tonight, the Count had retired early after their shared dinner, excusing himself to his library with a kiss on the top of Johnathan’s head. He had sat by himself for some time in the dining room, watching the fire spit and crackle in the grate, before deciding to explore. He wonders, sometimes, if Dracula knows his game – that his nocturnal wanders are concealed attempts at finding some hidden way out of the castle. He knows he can’t use the front door. It’s much too obvious, and Dracula keeps the thing firmly locked – it’s impenetrable. Johnathan has tried. If the Count knows, he hasn’t commented on it, and Johnathan realises that perhaps it amuses him to watch his bride wandering aimlessly around the castle, night after night, knowing that there is no possible way he can get out. 

Johnathan passes the library on tonight’s exploration, and he pauses by the open door, watching, for a moment, as Dracula sits behind the large mahogany desk, stacked high with piles of paper. It reminds him of his desk at home – where Mina and he would sometimes sit together for hours, he working and she typing letters to friends. Dracula appears to be writing something with a pen and ink, a single candle flickering at his side. 

Sensing Johnathan’s presence, he looks up, tips his head to one side. “Yes, dear?” 

There’s something dreadfully condescending in the way he addresses Johnathan, an amusement dancing behind his eyes, like there’s a private joke there somewhere, one that only he is privy to. It’s not the first time Johnathan has felt like Dracula’s little pet. 

Johnathan does his best to scowl. “I was just –” he pauses, “What are you doing?” 

Dracula dips his pen into his ink bottle, taps the nib on the edge of the glass. It makes a hollow kind of clinking sound. “Corresponding with an acquaintance of mine,” he says, “In London.”

Were Johnathan still a living, breathing creature, his breath might catch in his throat. “London?” he repeats, taking a step into the room. Then he frowns, as the words catch up with him, “What acquaintance in London?”

This brings a smile to Dracula’s face. “Now, you’re not jealous, are you?” He says, “Don’t worry. I’m simply making some enquiries.”

“Are we going to London?” Johnathan asks, ignoring Dracula’s implication of jealousy. Instead, he allows himself to feel a sudden, bright spark of hope. London means home. London means freedom, and _Mina_. 

The Count looks back down at his paper, the nib of his pen scratching across the page in his familiar, graceful script. Johnathan remembers admiring it when he’d first received the letter inviting him to stay at the castle. It seems like another life ago. In a way, he supposes, it is. Dracula says nothing for several moments, then glances up, as if just realising Johnathan is still there. 

“At some point.” He says, “Alterations must be made to the plans. Unforeseen changes in circumstance,” that smile again, the faintest glint of fanged teeth behind his lips. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

“No.” 

Dracula waves a hand, effectively dismissing him. “You may amuse yourself.” 

At least if the Count is busy, Johnathan thinks, he won’t have to spend time with him. It’s a strange feeling – most evenings, at least, Dracula demands his attention, or at least his company. Whether it be lying on his chaise longue with a book, one hand playing absently with Johnathan’s hair, or teaching him how to play chess, or else other, more amorous uses of their time together – that are not always confined to the bedroom. He loathes Dracula’s attention, but feels curiously untethered without it. 

He glances back over his shoulder as he turns to leave. Dracula’s head is bent over his desk once again, busy with writing. He doesn’t look at Johnathan again. 

Instead of lingering like an unwanted dog, Johnathan steps out into the long corridor, slips one of the maps he’d found from where it’s hidden in his pocket, and begins tonight’s search of the castle.

An hour and a half later finds Johnathan deep in the bowels of the castle, in a place he recognises with slight unease. It had been early on in his stay that he’d first come down here – searching for an exit, then, too – and here, also, where he had first known real terror. Tonight, curiosity beckons him onward. He had found Dracula’s coffin down here that night, too, and he wants another look at it. 

Stepping into the room, Johnathan pauses, looking back over his shoulder in case Dracula has suddenly appeared there. He wouldn’t put it past the Count to know exactly where he is, through some kind of sixth sense. 

Nothing. Johnathan swallows, and walks further into the room. It feels, he supposes, rather aptly like a crypt. The ceiling is low and barrelled, and it is empty save for the large stone coffin mounted on a plinth, and two unlit torches on the wall, either side. 

A chiselled plaque at the foot of the coffin reads Dracula’s name, and Johnathan runs his fingers across it, feels the rough edge of the stone. He wonders how old it is, how it got to be here in the first place. He isn’t sure what he’s expecting to find by being here, but still he peers inside, trying to see inside through the crack in the stone. It’s filled with dirt, and nothing more. 

Johnathan remembers Dracula’s invitation - _there’s room in the coffin for two_. He shudders, stepping away from it. He’ll never allow himself to be put in a box – stone coffin or otherwise. 

There’s a faint noise, from somewhere outside the room. 

Scratching, like nails scrabbling against wood. He follows the sound along the corridor, to a door that is immediately familiar to him. This is where he had found those undead creatures and been terrified, before. They don’t scare him now. He knows they can’t hurt him. 

He steps into the room, looks at it with fresh eyes. It remains piled high with boxes, untouched and covered in a layer of dust, much as before. It’s clear that this room is visited only rarely. The first thing Johnathan sees is his own suitcase, propped up against a box near the door. He squats down next to it, running a hand along the layer of dust forming there, breathing in the gentle smell of home. 

The scratching sound comes again, closer this time. Johnathan turns, realises it’s coming from a sealed crate behind him. 

“Hello?” he tries.

The scratching stops. He takes a few cautious steps towards it, unsure. The box is sealed shut with thick iron nails, one at each corner. Once, Johnathan would have been unable to open it without the aid of a hammer, or a crowbar. Now it’s easy enough for him to wedge his fingers between the planks and pull, the lid coming away easily, wood splintering under his grip. He lets the lid slip onto the floor, the noise sudden and loud in the otherwise silent room. 

The box, like the one he’d looked in before, appears full to the brim with personal belongings; photographs, sheets of paper, items of clothing that are moth eaten and easily over fifty years old. Near the top, he sees what looks to be a lady’s dress, in a dark fabric that might once have been a beautiful shade of blue. He picks it up carefully, not wanting to tear or damage it. It smells, faintly, of perfume, and old blood. When the fabric unravels itself, something falls out, and lands with a thud on the daguerreotype photograph inside the box. Johnathan glances down, and what he sees gives him pause. 

It’s a gun. 

He’s never seen one before, and he’s hesitant as he sets the dress aside and reaches for the curved wooden handle. It’s cold to the touch, weighty, and without looking Johnathan can tell that it’s still loaded. 

Something scratches again, and this time Johnathan reaches into the box, pushing the items aside with his free hand. Something grabs his wrist, and he lets out a yelp, pries his hand back from the clammy grip of something he knows, already, is long dead. 

As he watches, a creature rises from within the box, slowly, with a low moaning sound. It isn’t facing him, yet, and all Johnathan can see is a tangle of long, brown hair, and the torn fabric of what might once have been a lady’s night gown. Finally it turns, revealing a face that’s half skeletal, teeth exposed in a horrific parody of a grin. A maggot wriggles, and falls from one eye socket. 

“Help me,” it gurgles, stumbling out of the box and onto the floor. It’s speaking Romanian, but Johnathan understands perfectly. “Kill me.” 

He takes a few steps backwards, towards the door. It follows him, stumbling forwards on unsteady feet. The smell is horrific, overpowering his senses now – rot and decay, and the cloying remainder of perfume long since gone stale. 

“Stay back.” Johnathan says, calmly. He doesn’t want it to touch him – the thought of those hands on his skin again makes him feel faintly sick. 

“Please,” it says, pointing at the gun, “Kill me. Kill me.” 

Johnathan glances down at the gun in his hand. Would it work? 

He lifts it experimentally, some unseen knowledge in the back of his mind telling him to use his thumb to draw back the hammer, rest his index finger easily on the trigger. The recoil sends him back a step or two when he fires, and his aim is off, just slightly. It still hits the creature somewhere in the chest, and it screams, even as the bullet sends it crumbling to ash. 

Silence. Johnathan stares at the floor, and then at the gun. He’d have expected his hands to be shaking, but they remain remarkably steady. 

An idea comes to him. 

Turning back towards the door, Johnathan grabs his suitcase, clicking it open and slipping the gun inside without stopping to look at his old belongings. There’s a photo of Mina inside, he knows, and he doesn’t think he can bear to look at it just now. The way back to his room, thankfully, doesn’t require him to pass the library, and he goes straight there, slides the suitcase right to the back of the wardrobe, underneath a pile of bed linen and thick woollen blankets. 

It takes him several days to pluck up the courage to look at the weapon again, and he only does it when he’s very sure that he won’t be interrupted. Dracula has a habit of entering the room without knocking – privacy, it seems, is something Johnathan will have to grow used to a lack of – and he doesn’t want this to be seen. 

He’s dressing for dinner when he glances at the edge of the suitcase, peeking from its hiding place. On a whim, he retrieves the gun, sliding it into the waistband of his trousers, hidden securely beneath the fabric of them and the jacket he pulls on over his shirt. Dracula had, at last, provided him with a new wardrobe of clothing, impeccably tailored and perfectly fitting, in a range of dark and luxurious fabrics. Johnathan never asked where they had come from, but he had appreciated the ability to properly clothe himself again, to not have to suffer the indignity of being so undressed in the Count’s presence. 

Dracula insists that the two of them dine together at sun down every night, though he often disappears for hours on end after this, leaving Johnathan to wander the castle alone, or otherwise beckons his bride into the library with him, fucks him on the rug in front of the fire when he feels so inclined. 

Tonight, he’s already seated in the dining room when Johnathan arrives, a book spread open on the table in front of him. It looks like an atlas, but before Johnathan can get a proper look, he snaps it shut, standing to greet him. 

“Johnny,” he says, eyeing him appreciatively, “Aren’t you looking lovely tonight? Did you sleep well?” 

Johnathan waits until he’s seated to answer. There’s a tall glass of blood already full, waiting for him. His mouth waters at the smell – he hadn’t realised how hungry he had grown until now. He wants nothing more than to grab it, drain the whole thing in one go. He hasn’t yet learned to control his hunger the same way Dracula seems able to at times, and he doesn’t know if this is by nature, or Dracula’s own design to keep him half starved. 

“Yes.” He replies, humouring the Count with polite conversation. He sets his hands down on the table top, plays idly with the edge of one carefully pressed napkin. 

Dracula picks up his glass, leans forward to inhale like one would with a particularly expensive wine. “Mm.” he says, noncommittal, “Don’t stand on ceremony, darling, you may eat.”

The meal is, largely, no different to any other. Dracula talks, Johnathan listens; tries not to stare as the Count swirls his finger in the glass, licks the blood off slowly, obscenely. 

Johnathan feels the gun pressing into the small of his back, distracting him. He can’t stop himself from thinking about it – if he doesn’t do it now, he knows that he will be too afraid to try it again. If he doesn’t do it now, then Dracula will surely find the gun in its hiding place, later, when he undresses Johnathan. 

If this works, he can escape – find the letters in Dracula’s library from his London correspondence, perhaps organise his safe transport home. With Dracula around, he knows this can never happen, not on his own terms, and not without collateral damage. 

He waits until both of their glasses are empty before he pulls the gun from his waistband; reflexes lightning quick in a way they never used to be. Before he can talk himself out of it, Johnathan has fired twice, both bullets hitting Dracula in the centre of his chest. The Count blinks, glancing down at himself. There are two fresh holes in the front of his shirt, where the bullets entered, and blood is slowly beginning to trickle from them. 

Unlike the creature in the basement, he doesn’t turn to dust. Doesn’t even cry out in pain. His face is quite blank. 

“Ouch.” He says, looking back up. 

Hand trembling, Johnathan drops the gun. It hits the table with a dull thud. 

“That wasn’t very nice,” Dracula says, “Was it?” 

Johnathan’s chair scrapes against the flagstones as he stands. He wasn’t sure what he expected, really – he knows it must be harder than that to kill a vampire as old as Dracula, but he had thought it would have given him enough time to run. That it might have wounded him, just a little bit more. 

He takes a few steps backwards as Dracula rises to his own feet.

“I thought –” Johnathan starts, swallows. He feels panic rising in his throat, curls his hands into fists and feels the sting of his nails pressing into the skin of his palms. 

“What did you think?” he asks, walking around the end of the table towards Johnathan. He drags his fingers along the surface as he goes, tapping those terrible claws against the polished wood. The blood is beginning to spread, seeping slowly into the fabric of his shirt, and Johnathan’s nostrils flare at the smell. The blood of thousands of victims runs through his veins, but the scent itself is distinctly Dracula’s own. Johnathan is well acquainted with it. “Do tell.”

He glances at the discarded gun, reaches across to touch it, and laughs. “Oh! I remember this. Did you find it on one of your little adventures?”

“Why didn’t it kill you?” Johnathan asks.

Dracula sighs. It sounds rather authentic, for someone who doesn’t actually need to breathe. He doesn’t look at Johnathan as he picks the weapon up, clicks open the chamber to inspect it, thoughtfully. 

“I really thought you were starting to learn.” Dracula says. He closes the chamber and draws back the hammer in one fluid motion, “But you are slow, aren’t you?” 

Before Johnathan has the chance to respond, there’s a loud bang – and a sudden, sharp pain blossoming in the centre of his chest that sends him stumbling backwards. Dracula is holding the gun in one outstretched hand, pointing it directly at him. A wisp of smoke curls from the end of the barrel. 

Johnathan looks down at himself, touches a hand to his chest. His fingers come away wet with his own blood. 

“What –” he begins, looking back up at Dracula’s raised eyebrow, “You shot me!”

Dracula tosses the gun away carelessly. It skates along the floor and disappears somewhere under the table. “You shot me first, darling.” He holds out a hand, palm open, “Come here.”

Johnathan hesitates. What would Dracula do if he ran? He already knows that the Count is stronger, and faster than him. But would the element of surprise give him a head start? He could get to the roof from here, it’s not far. This time, if he jumped – perhaps he would make it. 

“Don’t run.” Dracula says. He curls his fingers towards himself, “Johnny. Come here, now.” 

He glances past the Count, at the door which lies open, leading into the long hallway. It could take him less than five minutes to reach the roof, if he sprints. Dracula is watching him, silently waiting for Johnathan to make his move. He knows he has to try. If not now, when? 

Johnathan makes his decision. He runs. 

He doesn’t stop to look behind him as he scrambles out of the room, reaching the stairway within moments. He can’t hear Dracula behind him yet, can’t hear much beyond the rush of air as it whistles past his ears at speed. He’d never been this quick in life – at school, sports had been his worst subject. Johnathan was slow, delicate, more suited to curling up in the library with a good book than racing with the other boys in the field. He’s fast now – but, as it seems, not fast enough. 

He’s only halfway up the spiral staircase when he hears a warning growl from behind him, and a clawed hand snatches him about the waist. Johnathan lets out a cry, stumbling. Dracula pulls Johnathan flush against his chest, grip secure despite Johnathan’s attempts to claw him off. 

“I said,” Dracula’s lips are right at Johnathan’s ear, and the closeness makes him shiver, curl his toes inside his boots, “Don’t run.”

“Let go of me.” Johnathan says, twisting in his grip. Dracula’s hold on him only tightens. 

“And let you run away from me again? No, I don’t think so. You really do like to make things difficult for yourself, don’t you?” 

What happens now? Johnathan’s mind spins. Will Dracula kill him, for this betrayal? He’d wanted death, at first – welcomed the thought of it, the sweet nothingness it promised, free from pain. Now his survival instincts have kicked in, a pure animalistic need to stay alive in spite of everything else. His misery doesn’t matter, not to this part of his brain that drives him forward, keeps him feeding time and time again though it horrifies him. He tries to squirm again, hoping to slip out of Dracula’s grip and keep going, but as he moves, he feels a hardness, pressing into the back of his thigh. 

Oh. 

“You’re enjoying this!” he exclaims, trying to pry Dracula’s hands from his waist. It’s an unsuccessful endeavour. He’s hardly surprised – he knows Dracula likes it when Johnathan fights back – sees the chase as some kind of sport. If he had simply rolled over in submission the Count would have grown bored in an instant. 

Dracula laughs, nips at Johnathan’s neck with his teeth. It isn’t sharp enough to draw blood, but Johnathan tenses nevertheless. “Of course I am.” 

Johnathan clenches his jaw, presses his hips back purposefully this time, and feels a cruel sort of vindication in the short gasp it draws from Dracula’s throat. 

“Tease.” He growls. 

Without warning, Johnathan’s world tilts as Dracula lifts him off the ground, swings him around in his arms till he’s carrying him – bridal style, Johnathan thinks bitterly. He winds his arms around the Count’s neck instinctively so that he doesn’t fall, tries not to glare at the look of triumph in Dracula’s eyes. 

The Count carries them upstairs to the bedroom, deposits Johnathan on the mattress without ceremony. Johnathan watches him close the door, draw the latch. There’s no real purpose to it – they are alone in the castle save for Dracula’s other two brides, who never bother to venture far from the boxes in which they sleep. It’s pure power play, and Johnathan won’t give him the satisfaction of mentioning it. 

He stops at the end of the bed, takes his time pulling his cravat free, shrugging his waistcoat from his shoulders and draping it across the back of a chair. He raises a brow at his ruined shirt, flicks his eyes back to Johnathan as he inspects it. 

“What a waste.” He says, conversationally, “You know, this shirt is rather a bit older than you. It won’t be easy to replace such fine linen.” He leans one knee onto the bed, lifting himself easily to bracket Johnathan’s hips with his knees, straddling him. “I really ought to teach you a lesson, Johnny dear.” 

Johnathan wets his lips, watches Dracula track the movement with his eyes. “I won’t – I won’t do it again.” He says. They both know it’s a lie.

Dracula grins at him, brushes Johnathan’s jaw with his thumb. “Oh I know you won’t,” he croons. It sounds like a barely concealed threat. 

With his other hand, he gently unbuttons Johnathan’s shirt, pushing the fabric to the side. The bullet wound is raised and red, right in the centre of his chest. The blood has begun to dry, and already Johnathan can see that the wound has started to knit itself back together. 

“Now.” Dracula says, tapping at it with his index finger. It doesn’t hurt as much as expected. “Guns are funny little weapons, are they not? So inelegant. Leaving such inelegant wounds.” 

When he digs his nail into the wound, Johnathan gags, feels his stomach twisting with nausea. This, at least, is painful. He squirms in Dracula’s grip, fights to pull away from the unwelcome intrusion, but he’s held fast in place until Dracula pulls the bullet out, holding it between his thumb and index finger. The blood glints in the candle light, thick and red. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he says, “That one tiny piece of metal can cause so much damage. The human body is so terribly fragile. It’s quite endearing, really.” He drops the bullet onto the bed, and brings his fingers up to his mouth to lick the blood from them. It’s obscene. Johnathan stares, unable to look away. 

Without thinking, he reaches up to take Dracula’s wrist in his grip. He looks at the difference between them – Johnathan’s hands are small, his wrists narrow. Dracula is broad boned and strong, though not without elegance. It’s not hard to imagine him on the battlefield, commanding an army centuries before. He tugs Dracula towards him, takes his index finger into his own mouth, digs his teeth in even as he sucks the last of the blood away, tasting himself. 

“Oh,” Dracula breathes, his eyes growing darker as his pupils dilate. 

“Please.” Johnathan says, releasing Dracula’s hand. A bead of blood wells just below the knuckle, where his teeth had caught, and releases; drops onto Johnathan’s pale cheek.

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Not until Dracula gives him it.


End file.
